Tonight I Long for Rest
by Lasrevinu
Summary: Grissom does stuff.


Disclaimer: I don't own _CSI_.

Rating: Teen

Spoilers: 8x07

Summary: Grissom does stuff.

****

Tonight I Long For Rest

"And how will you be paying for this, sir?"

The cashier -- a rather dignified looking older woman with dyed platinum hair and perfectly penciled in brows -- smiled at Grissom as he slid his American Express card across the glass display case. She worked efficiently, ringing up his purchase while she commended him on his good taste. "Most men haven't a clue what to buy."

He nodded, took the small shopping bag from her hands, and sped off towards the exit.

The sun was beginning to set as he hit the highway, casting a smoky pink hue over the city. There was still time to go home and sleep before shift. Grissom regarded the shopping bag that was currently resting in the passenger's seat. Eyes back on the rode, he switched lanes, anticipating his exit.

Homeward bound.

He wasn't two blocks from his house when his cell phone began to trill.

Sleep would have to wait.

Brass gave him the rundown over the phone: suspected suicide; neighbors heard a gunshot, called the police, and the police called him.

"Page Greg and have him meet us there."

"Can do."

Grissom sighed as he snapped his phone shut. Normally, he wouldn't have bothered to bring another CSI on to so simple a case, but he could feel exhaustion seep into his bones. He could head the investigation, but no more. If there were people to question or leads to track down, Greg would be doing the legwork. All Grissom wanted was sleep, and the moment they collected all of the evidence from the crime scene, he would be going home to get it. True respite had eluded him for months, but soon…soon he would finally know some peace.

Greg and Brass were waiting for him outside of the crime scene. Grissom nodded and both men led the way into the victim's house.

"Paul Simmon's residence. Forty-six. Single. He teaches English over at UNLV," Brass supplied as they entered the living room.

"No evidence of foul play here," Grissom said, stifling a yawn as he took in the cluttered-but-clean living area.

"He's got a lot of books," Greg piped up.

"Which is to be expected when one teaches English on the university level." Grissom turned to Brass. "Where's the body?"

Paul Simmons died in his king-sized bed, propped up by several pillows that currently looked like Jackson Pollock knockoffs. The scattershot of blood artfully flanked the man with the hole in the back of his throat.

"He ate the bullet," Greg shivered.

"It would appear so. Don't focus on the injury," Grissom added quickly when he saw that the young man's eyes were still fixed on the torn flesh at Simmons' throat. "Tell me what you see."

"I, uh…" Greg scanned the room. "Well, the gun fell to the victim's left, which tells me he probably shot himself with his left hand, which means he's most likely left-handed. There should be GSR on his left hand and sleeve. And his face."

"Good. What else?"

"Everything is neat in here. Almost too neat for a guy's bedroom. There's no laundry anywhere -- dirty or clean. The garbage can is empty. It's as if.…it's as if…"

"There's no unfinished business?" Grissom asked, his eyebrows raised.

"Yeah. Exactly." Greg turned to Brass. "Was there a suicide note?"

Brass shook his head. "Not that the first guys on the scene could find. We have to wait for the coroner to see if he has anything in his pockets."

"The majority of people who suicide don't leave any explanation in writing." Grissom pursed his lips. "Jim, I think he might've emptied his pockets for us. What else do you see. Greg?"

"Uh…he doesn't appear to be in full rigor, so he has been dead less than twelve hours…"

"If T.O.D. is consistent with the gunshot heard by the neighbors, he's been dead seven hours," Grissom said. "No, look at the nightstand."

Greg's eyes flew to a brown leather wallet

"It's what the officers used to informally I.D. him," Brass said. "According to the guys who first arrived on the scene, it was right there on the nightstand. They claimed they didn't take it from the corpse. Simmons left it there."

Grissom nodded. "Greg, why don't you check out his wallet? Brass? Find out if Paul Simmons is a registered owner of a firearm." He watched as both men got to work. The case seemed pretty open-and-shut. Suicides were always sad events, but when the perpetrator was also the victim, it made for easy evidence collection. The police department would be making inquiries into the dead man's personal life; they'd check to see if he had been prescribed any anti-depressants, and a tox panel would verify if he had been taking them. All Grissom and Greg had to do was prove that Paul Simmons pulled the trigger that ended his life.

He watched as the younger CSI flipped open the leather wallet and examined the driver's license.

"What do you see?"

"Well, he was a Virgo." When Grissom made a face, Greg continued. "Uh…there are a couple of twenties. A library card. His UNLV I.D. card. He was an organ donor…although I don't think they'll be harvesting them now since he's been dead for a while. Ah…"

Grissom looked up. "What?"

"There's a folded up piece of paper in one of the compartments. Probably just directions he wrote down. I used to do that before I got my GPS. Or maybe he's one of the few people who suicide leaving a note." Using a gloved hand, Greg extracted a piece of notebook paper folded up until it was about one inch square. "Will we be doing a handwriting analysis?"

"Let's just see what it says first, Greg."

He unfolded the paper. "It's dated yesterday."

Grissom pursed his lips. "What's it say?"

"I think it's a poem." Greg cleared his throat and began to read aloud. "The day is done, and the darkness/Falls from the wings of Night/As a feather is wafted downward/From an eagle in his flight./I see the lights of the village/Gleam--"

"--through the rain and mist/And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me/That my soul cannot resist/A feeling of sadness and longing/ That is not akin to pain/ And resembles sorrow only/ As the mist resembles the rain. It's Longfellow," Grissom explained. "_The Day Is Done_."

So used to his boss spouting poetry from memory, Greg didn't comment. Instead, he glanced at the corpse as David Phillips walked into the room, supply kit in hand. "Well, his day is done."

David looked up at him innocently. "My day is just starting."

Once the coroner released the body to the CSIs, Grissom instructed Greg to test the victim for GSR. He snapped on a glove and picked up the copy of the poem Simmons had left in his wallet. _The day is done_, he read silently, and then squeezed his eyes shut.

It was his favorite poem.

As he bagged it as evidence, Grissom's eyes wandered the room. He and Simmons had a similar set up: large bed with a dark coverlet, large plasma TV, a cluttered living room with books everywhere. All that was missing was the dog.

"He's positive for GSR."

Grissom turned his head to Greg.

"He's got it on his left hand, left arm. Plus his face, of course."

"And the revolver is his," Brass added as he made his way back into the room. "The serial number matches up."

Greg nodded. "I doubt the bullet is still in his skull. It's probably in the drywall somewhere. Ballistics will be able to confirm that the bullet that killed him was fired from his gun."

Grissom barely listened as the other men discussed the case. He watched the corpse, alone in the big bed, its dead, glassy eyes staring into oblivion. If it weren't for the wound, he could be Grissom. In his bed. Alone. His eyes fixed on some random part of the wall due to chronic insomnia. Old. Alone.

"You gonna get that? Gil?"

Grissom blinked and turned to Brass. "Hmm?"

"Your phone. It's ringing."

"Ah. Oh." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his cell, sighing as he looked at the display before putting the receiver to his ear. "Hello, Catherine."

"Hey, two things: Number one, you didn't okay my week off in June. Linds and I are going to Ann Arbor to check out U Mich. I've already bought the plane tickets and booked the hotel, and so help me if I have to eat that just because you're lazy about paperwork."

"Just sign my name at the bottom of your request. What was the second thing?"

"Second thing?"

"You said there were two things you needed to tell me," he said impatiently, running a hand over his forehead and rubbing vigorously.

"Oh, _right_." He could hear the smugness in her voice and frowned as Catherine continued. "Nordstrom's called and left a message with Judy. You left your credit card at the perfume counter. Buying Sara gifts, are we?"

"No."

Grissom snapped the phone shut.

"Finish this up, Greg. If you run into trouble, call Catherine. She's already at the lab." He checked his watch. Nine o'clock. "I'm going home." He hadn't slept more than two hours together in months.

That was going to change tonight.

Shucking his gloves, Grissom made his way to his car and speedily drove home. His credit card could wait. Right now all that mattered was the tiny Nordstrom's shopping bag that was still resting in the passenger's seat.

_She had been waiting outside of her apartment for him, and was quick to let herself into the car before he could get out to open the door for her. Thoughts of whether or not she was avoiding letting him into her apartment disappeared the moment her scent wafted into the car. She never smelled like that before. Driven to distraction, he almost forgot where he was taking her on their first date. As they had eaten, he missed whole chunks of what she was saying because he couldn't stop guessing where exactly she had applied that heavenly scent. The delicate area right under her jaw, maybe? Her clavicle? On the paper-thin skin that covered the pulse points on her wrists? He wanted to explore all of those places and more._

And he did.

For a long time he did.

Grissom pulled into his driveway and grabbed the bag before hightailing it to his front door. He was a man running on empty, but he was also a man on a mission. After shedding all but his underwear on the bathroom floor, he brushed his teeth before turning off the light. The clothes didn't go in the hamper, the toothpaste cap didn't get screwed back on. He didn't care.

All that mattered was the bed in front of him and the bag in his hand. He extracted the cellophane-covered box, struggling momentarily as he peeled the clear wrapping off. The crumpled cellophane got tossed on the nightstand, followed by the fancy box.

In his hands was the too-expensive perfume she once wore, the precious scent she had sweated off as he brought her to climax.

Grissom climbed into his side of the bed and closed his eyes, the cool glass bottle icy against his hot skin. He exhaled loudly and began to whisper the poem that plagued his brain:

"Come, read to me some poem,  
Some simple and heartfelt lay,  
That shall soothe this restless feeling,  
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,  
Not from the bards sublime,  
Whose distant footsteps echo  
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,  
Their mighty thoughts suggest  
Life's endless toil and endeavor;  
And to-night I long for rest."

He pulled off the cap to the perfume bottle and began to spray her side of the bed, closing his eyes quickly so he could pretend she was there, that she was sleeping soundly next to him, happy and safe. He breathed in deeply as he lay his head down on his pillow, his hand stroking the comforter as if it were her soft skin.

"I miss you, Sara."

THE END


End file.
